Sounds like our man here is missing out on having a gäng to confide in.

Invisible kisses from the lips of the city.

You don't need interests to make you interesting.

Your obsessions and secret passions have saved you more than once, and may yet again.

His face seems to say: 'but not if this job carries on the way it is'.

No need when your body language matches a spider as it stiffly curls up into a ball to die.

Old memories.

The tail you cannot seem to shake.

THE LONG ARM OF THE PARTY.

The memories of your own past claw away inside you.

Snarling beasts! Ripped flesh. Teeth, eat, screaming!

He means to insult you. But he has manners enough to get your permission first.

His insult does nothing. You are a steel wall that cannot be affected by mere words.

OFFENCE USED AS DEFENCE. AN ACCEPTABLE RETALIATION.

It hurts because it's true.

He grimaces, wearing the same look as when you asked him about the moon.

It's not so bad when you've got your gäng to back you up.

His soft heart has had to learn to nestle among wilder things.

It's locked away deep inside, far away from the surface that he's comfortable presenting.

Both minerals used to put the juice in batteries.

You see the pity for the miners in the man's eyes. Men and women drying out inside barren rock, the billowing dust steadily making them blind...

He hid it well. What else could he be hiding?

Either you're still thawing out from your time in the Freezer, or this guy is much better at disguise than he would seem.

Burned to the inside of his eyes.

At least we'll never be alone. Gäng is forever.

The planet's surface may blister, but the clay beneath remains ever mutable.

Something happened on the moon, something he will never be able to face again.

Detecting low levels of 'It' here. Seems his return hasn't solved that particular problem at all.

La Luz. Once a powerful empire, now reconstituted as a modern techno-fascist state, the rising military and cultural power of the day.

Mention of La Luz never fails to make your hairs stand attentive.

Luz. Techno-fascists. Enemy.

No satisfying pleasure from untwisting a tangled braid of cords? No fun at all.

It cannot be overstated how important it is for you to not go around telling everyone you meet that you're a trained professional.

The Auto-Negotiator hums in your hand. You can practically feel the little magnets spinning inside.

Sadness fills his movements, like a sludge.

Unlikely to be a coincidence that he's now occupying a place of reflection.

Something's up. This is a distraction.

As if expecting a miracle to materialise before him.

A familiar dolphin logo on his shirt, peeking out above his arm.

Renotel. A diversified communications company local to the state of Portofiro. Immediately recognisable by its dolphin logo.

That device he's carrying is some sort of all-in-one tracker and intercommunications device. State-of-the-art, wireless, a modern wonder.

That thing he's carrying has got buttons, a little antennae... that's a grade-A thingy, alright.

A familiar dolphin logo on his shirt, peeking out above his arm.

Strange leaves. More like seashells than any you're used to.

You're on the world's clock now. Nothing you or anyone else might do can slow or hasten its secret mechanism.

UPHOLD PARTY STANDARD TIME. REJECT BOTANICAL DEVIATIONISM.

What tree is this?

No one takes note of you either. To wider Quisach you're simply a middle-aged woman, staring at a tree.

You let your vision decouple. The tree becomes a pleasing blur of light and shadow. It's all very aesthetic.

A simple misperception, absolutely nothing to be alarmed by, obviously it's just the way that the breeze pulls itself through the tree's leaves -- but it seems to you that the tree is breathing, and the cadence of its breath matches your own.

Checks